Bats, Bandages, Brooding, and Bonding: In That Order
by Dr. SecretAgentMan
Summary: A series of one shots in which the BatClan is horrendous at taking care of themselves (per usual), and their friends, family, mortal enemies, and otherwise are stuck with the unfortunate job of keeping them alive (per usual). Each story will differ from the next and range from angsty to humorous depending on the day.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything related to the comics, movies, or television shows. This is for fun not for profit.

Author's note: I've been absent a lot lately. Sorry about that guys. I hope this piece is decent in wake of my recent return to the fanfiction world. This will also be the first of many pieces in this collection, where most if not all will be one-shots. The Bat Family is one of my favorites, and the dynamics between the members are so interesting and complex. It makes for a wonderful story.

Warnings: Some cussing. Talk of childhood neglect and eating disorders. Please be aware of this before reading. Thank you.

* * *

Jason knows he's done some stupid things in his past life. He knows he's done some stupid things in his current life. He even knows he'll probably do some stupid things in his next life as well. - _Will_ _you look at the Buddhist he's turning into; won't the gods above be proud_ \- What he doesn't know is what was so bad as to garner the absolute mess he's dealing with right now.

He and Tim were just having dinner after patrol. Or rather, Jason is broke so he's heating up a can of off-brand chicken noodle soup as their dinner, and Tim is keeping up a steady stream of conversation from the barstool he's perched himself on. Which is fine, by Jason's standards. The kid may only speak in SAT words and geek terminology Jason will never understand, but Tim is currently the only member of the Batclan Jason's on decent terms with, or at least, the only one he'll admit to. So the babbling is accepted, irritably of course because Jason has an image to upkeep, and for the most part, the night goes relatively smoothly.

And then Jason's making a comment about how little Tim eats and barely avoids burning his house down in the aftermath.

"Come on, baby bird. Stop pecking at that chex mix and actually put some weight on that stick body of yours." Jason flicks the tip of spoon he's been using to stir the soup in his brother's direction. Tim laughs and smacks him in the face with an accurately aimed pretzel.

"Not everyone needs to scarf down their food like you do Jay. Besides, it's a habit. My parents didn't like it much when I ate."

Jason rolls his eyes and turns back to the soup. "No parent likes to see their kid eat, Timmers. If you haven't noticed, kids are gross, and your high society parental unit probably regretted the idea of children after the first time you spit up on your mother's thirty-three-thousand-dollar pantsuit."

Another snort greets him, along with a scraping sound, as Tim drags his chair along his kitchen floor, likely to get a better vantage point to pelt his brother with salty snack food. "Yah, yah, make fun of my upbringing why don't you, Jay. You have a point though. Did you know they only let me eat once a day, and even then, they didn't stay long enough to see it? I'm pretty sure they thought breakfast was the devil." His voice picks up in a high, tinny falsetto. " 'Eating is unbecoming of a young man, Timothy. Listen to your father and I, or the Nanny will keep you for the gala tonight.' "

Tim goes as far as to put air quotes around the saying. Jason goes as far as to almost drop the towel he's using to pull the soup off the stove straight into the burner.

"They _what_?" He clambers to shut off the stove and turn back to his brother because really how is he supposed to respond to that? "What the hell do you mean ' _eating is unbecoming of a young man_.' What- They owned a mansion! What kind of a bullshit statement is that?"

Tim shrugs. "The truth I guess. I am, after all, the only heir to the Drake fortune. I had to look presentable."

"And they did that by what; _starving you_?"

"I wasn't starved."

"You only ate once a day." Jason points out in a voice much too tiny for his pride to ever admit. "That's not normal."

"It as a reasonable solution. I was a bit overweight at the time."

"A bit - _a bit overweight_?" Jason feels vaguely sick. He wonders if he'll ever be able to eat after this. It's ironic and slightly sadistic to think about. "Tim you, seventeen and soaking wet, weigh less than Steph after she's gone on one of those no-waffle diets. Hell, probably less than Damian does at this point, with his recent growth spurt. You might as well label yourself underweight for officially weighing less than a moderately sized twelve-year-old."

"Only by half a pound." Tim says calmly, as if Jason's in the wrong for freaking out over this, as if Tim's not skin and bones and sinewy muscle that never looks quite right on the teen because Jason can loop two fingers around his forearm easy and that's never sat well with him. "And besides, it hasn't always been that way. I was pretty heavy as a kid."

Jason's certain Tim's never been 'pretty heavy' in his life. He has to bite down the pathetic motherly urge to take whatever non-perishables he has in his cupboard and stuff it down the kid's throat.

"So because you were a bit - _and I stress a bit_ \- overweight they had the right to starve you to get you where they wanted you?"

"They didn't _starve_ me, Jason; stop calling it that. It was just a strict diet. Food only in the morning or afternoons; no desserts; sometimes they'd make me skip meals for a day or two if I put on a little too much weight. Nothing extensive."

 _Nothing extensive_. Not feeding your child is _nothing extensive_. Jason is going to puke.

Tim however looks perfectly content with the conversation, even looking around and smiling when he looks off to the side into the living room.

"Hey, you have cable! Have you ever watched Criminal Minds? I mean it's not the most realistic thing but it's still good." He hops off the barstool he's sitting in, and clamors over to the living room couch. "I'll be in here if you need me, Jay. Tell me when dinner's done."

And just like that the conversation is over. Jason reflexively turns the stove back on and starts reheating their dinner. Five minutes later, the soup is boiling over and Jason is kneeling beside his toilet, losing his lunch.

* * *

Dinner is an ...unpleasant affair. The soup is off the table (and the pot and the counter; it'd over-boiled piled on the stove when Jason got back from the bathroom and no amount of nudging from Tim would get him to clean it up), but after the conversation they've had, Jason is not going to forgo a meal entirely. Instead, they wind up eating cold turkey sandwiches and snacking off Tim's value-sized bag of pretzels on the couch. Some marathon of some crime show Jason can't remember the name of plays while they're eating. Tim spends the entire time criticizing the techniques of the main actor and nibbling away at a sandwich he doesn't even finish half of. Jason spends the entire time silently wondering how he's going to breach the subject of how incredibly _wrong_ Tim's parents were about their son's health.

Neither action really comes to fruition. Tim, tired out from patrol and likely a non-stop work week at WE, crashes somewhere between the third and fourth episode they watch. Jason can't find it in himself to wake him, especially if all he wants to do is comment on the shittiness of the kid's parents. Instead, he gently slips out from underneath Tim, who at some point has lolled his head onto the other man's shoulder, and lumbers off into his bedroom, swearing softly under his breath all the while. His phone is still on his nightstand and he glares at it, angrily debating his choices, before punching in a two into his speed dial. Dick's half-awake voice answers on the second ring.

"Officer Richard Grayson, Bludhaven PD-"

"Hey Dick." Jason breathes, and knows his brother has fully woken without so much as another sound from the other end. Jason can count on one hand the number of times he has called Dick's personal cell, and apparently Dick remembers this too because suddenly, his voice rings with a clarity that shouldn't be legal or even obtainable at four seventeen in the morning.

"Jason." Dick says reverently, as if he never expected to hear his brother's voice again. There's about three seconds of just silence, probably Dick absorbing the fact that his wayward little brother called him willingly before the panic sets in and he fires off question after question into Jason's waiting ear. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come pick you up? I can do that; I'm only half an hour away. If it's an emergency, I can wake up Babs or Bruce, I know you and him aren't on the best of terms but if you're in trouble he'll come; _I'll make him_ -"

"I'm fine, Goldie. I'm not hurt." Jason's eyes roll until they catch Tim's sleeping form, glance over the tv-illuminated glow of his concave belly, the slight but obvious curve of his ribs, and the fire from earlier reignites in his chest, scalding and reminiscent of the hatred that pooled there after his stint with the Lazarus Pits. "Actually, scratch that. I'm not fine; hell, I'll never be fine again."

"Jason, what-"

"No! You have no excuse, Dick! You lived with him for five _goddamn_ years. Did you or Bruce or Alfred never think to set the kid right on his health or on the eating habits that are tearing him apart."

"Who ar-"

Jason ignored him. "Jesus, I thought you were big brother central over there; I thought you would be the first to smack some sense into the kid because his abusive, neglectful _son-of-a-bitch_ parents screwed him up royally and you are the key keeper to unscrewing-"

" _JASON_ _!_ _"_

He can't help the automatic way his tongue glues itself to the roof of his mouth at the tone. It's a Robin-fueled instinct that he's never been able to shake, despite having given up the green tights years ago. That tone means 'shut up and obey' and Jason hates himself for forfeiting to it so quickly.

There's a sigh from the other end. "Jay, I have no idea what you're talking about, or even who you're talking about. Lived with for five years… Are you talking about _Tim_?"

The anger in his chest burns red-hot. It scalds hot acid in his mind, up his throat, against his tongue. "Damn straight, I'm talking about Tim! Did you not notice the kid's parents basically starved him before he came to you? That he continued the tradition when he moved in? The kid's barely getting enough calories to satisfy a child Damian's age, much less a seventeen-year-old that does what he does on a daily basis!"

There's vague sputtering on the utter line before Dick's voice comes in, panicked and utterly confused. " _Starving himself_? I- what- _no_. We would never-! I..When Tim came to live with us, he said his stomach bothered him when he ate sometimes, so we went to Leslie's and got him pills and Alfred made his portions smaller but he practically loaded them with supplements to make up for it! Alfred would never condone Tim not having enough to eat. Neither would Bruce, not that, never something like that, and I-" He breaks off horrified. " _Starving himself_? His parents owned a mansion nearly the size of Bruce's and they made him _starve himself_?"

Dick sounds like he's ready to cry, and for a brief second moment, Jason is ready to crucify him again despite it, because how could they miss it? The signs are so obvious to anyone with street knowledge..

 _Except Bruce and Dick have none of that_ , a traitorous part of his mind whispers. Sure they have street smarts, but knowledge? No. Neither of the two have ever experienced living there. Bruce was raised by millionaires in a mansion with parents who, for eight years of his life, adored him wholeheartedly. He probably had full run of the place: when he slept, where he played, and especially what he ate. He'd never had to scrounge for food, or not eat for days on end. The detective in him probably wouldn't have even picked up on the signs because Tim was so damnably alright with the entire ordeal, not to mention the grief that Jason's death had inflicted on the man. When Tim arrived, Bruce likely wasn't even seeing straight, much less well enough to focus on the caloric intake of a twelve-year old that he only saw between the hours of eleven and two in the morning. Golden Boy was even less likely to notice the signs. He'd bounced from one household that may have been poor but had parents that would have given up their last meal to him if he'd expressed even the idea of being hungry, to a house where food was abundant and a literal butler waited on your every beck and call. The signs that Tim still display are obvious to Jason because at some point he was Tim, half-starved though certainly with a different viewpoint on the matter. But to Dick and Bruce? The signs might as well be written in Swahili and doused in invisible ink.

Not to mention, Jason knows for a fact that neither Dick or Bruce would never stand for something like this. Despite the all-consuming anger clouding his judgement right now, he can still remember the first time Dick learned on the street that he hadn't always had enough to eat or even anything to eat at all. His brother had been horrified, eyes wide and skin pale, before immediately going down to make Jason whatever he wanted in the kitchen. That had ended in a disaster, as Dick's cooking always did, but the image, the meaning, still stood out clear in Jason's mind. Dick would never, in any universe, let his brothers starve; he would never in any universe let his brothers hurt, not willingly, not without consequences for their abuser.

Bruce taking him in and giving him his first hot meal in days breezed through his mind, and Jason had to shake himself of the warmth that came with the memory. The wreck of emotions that came with thinking of his father wasn't something he needed right now. All he had to focus on was the fact that his older brother had no knowledge of Tim's problem. It made him breathe easier. Some part of him, small and quiet as it may be, still held Dick up on that same pedestal he did when he was twelve and wearing green and yellow, when his older brother was this strong, smiling figure that teased him and tousled his hair and yelled at Bruce in his defense. Though he'd never say it out loud, he was glad his childhood hero still made the cut. Even if he did have the worst fashion sense in the entire vigilante business.

Jason shook his head again to clear his thoughts, and then put his phone back to his ear. Dick is still babbling on the other end of the line, has been throughout the time Jason tuned him out no doubt, and now he's practically yelling into the receiver in the nice, frenzied, guilt-ridden panic that his brother is known so well for.

"Is Tim with you? Because I need to talk to him; I need to apologize and I-I need to make something. No, my food isn't that good; I uhh.. I'll pick something up, something with protein and carbs. That's healthy right? Chicken has protein in it, and bread has carbs right, so would a chicken sandwich work, right Jason? _Jason_?"

"Yah, Goldie. It'll be fine." He glances back over at the somehow still slumbering Tim and shakes his head. "The Replacement's with me and sleeping anyway. I know you have work in the morning-"

" _Damn_ my work!" Dick snaps with such vehemence that Jason flinches automatically at the sudden mood shift from the most amiable of his brothers. The sound of a motorcycle starting hums through the line. "Family first, Jason. Always. I can take off work. I can get a new job if it comes down to it. What I can't do is help Tim, not if I'm a city away focused on my work. I've already neglected to notice this was an issue for the past four years; I'm not going to dismiss it for another few hours because it'll be _convenient_ for me."

In that moment, Jason loves his brother more than he ever has before. Because Bruce would have waited till morning and they both know it, and Jason doesn't think he can wait till then to have someone, anyone, to talk to about this. He wants to rave to the world how wonderful Dick _freaking_ Grayson is, tell them how much he needs his older brother despite the fact he's twenty-one and can handle himself just fine. He wants to and he can't and the words that come spewing out of his mouth taste slick and rank, like used motor oil.

"Oh calm yourself, Perfect One. I already talked to the kid." Now that's a blatant lie. "Unlike you, I know what it's like to go hungry."

All sounds except for the smooth hum of Dick's bike stop in a sudden gush of air. God, Jason's a jerk. He doesn't deserve the second chance at life he's been given because he's such a gigantic _asshole_. He might as well shoot himself in the foot for how good this conversation's going; why the hell did he say that? Why would he-

"You're right."

Jason swears his heart stops in his chest. "I'm what?"

"You're right, Jason; I don't know what that's like. Mami and Tati always made sure I had enough to eat, even when we didn't have much at all. And I'm sorry, Jay, that you, that both of you didn't have that. I am so, unbelievably sorry. But do not think just because I haven't gone through it, doesn't mean I will not help you to overcome it. I may not know what it feels like to go hungry, but I will not sit back and watch you or Tim suffer like some stranger when I could damn well be there like your _brother_. So I am going to show up at the door of whichever one of your apartments the two of you are at in half an hour with food and drinks and a tub of neopolitan ice cream that I know you and Tim both like, and we are going to talk like semi-civilized human beings about how we are going to fix this problem, is that understood?"

Jason has to restrain the urge to laugh, probably slightly hysterically. Even after all these years, Dick is still the eternally forgiving sixteen year old he grew up with. Now he just wears actual pants and happens to sound like (and be) a cop. Jason wants to cry. He restrains himself by very little.

"Alright." He finally whispers, feeling all of twelve years old again, cowering behind Dick because Bruce had gotten mad again. "We're at my apartment. I'll uh...leave the door open. Do you want me to wake The Replacement?"

"No, let him sleep. We can wake him in the morning."

Jason nods, even though Dick can't see him and goes to hang up his phone. He stops at the last possible minute.

"Dick?"

"Yah, Jay?"

"Thanks, for this. For… for everything." He slams his phone shut, but not before he hears the ghost of Dick's voice whispering,

"No need. Love you too, Little Wing."

Jason walks his way back to the couch, and scoots him closer to Tim until he can hear the soft breaths of the sleeping teen. Then he turns towards the door and waits for his brother.

* * *

I'll go through all the Bat-siblings (including the girls), and try to update every couple of days or so. If you find any inconsistencies in the story or have anything to add, don't hesitate to contact me. As always, have a great day!

-D. SAM


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to its rightful owners. I do not own anything in the Batman franchise nor do I claim to own anything there.

 **Characters:** Damian and Tim, with vague mentions of the rest of the Bat-clan.

 **Warnings:** Cursing. Somewhat graphic depictions of torture, specifically the one Tim faced while held captive by the Joker, in addition to brief mentions of suicidal thoughts and actions. Damian is also a little kinder than usual. Hopefully, he's not desperately OOC.

 **Author's Note:** I will be including some of the girls soon; don't worry! The next story will likely be a slightly humorous piece revolving around Steph and Damian as it's the one that's closest to being done and will break the depressing, angsty trend I have going on here. Afterwards, I have a couple with Jason, maybe Bruce, and Dick being the forefront, another with Cass and Damian, one with Steph and Cass, and a fourth that might involve little Mar'i and Kory. In the meantime, enjoy the piece!

 **Also:** Please if you have any suggestions, comments, or ideas for a story you think might be good for this collection, don't hesitate to post them as a comment or just PM me. It helps me keep this collection going and really shows me what you guys want next.

* * *

Tim doesn't remember much of the first few weeks after his rescue. Sometimes he gets flashes, little blurs of black and blue, of Bruce's tired eyes as he looked down on him, of Jason's rough palm against his forehead, the tail edges of a Romanian lullaby, once even the phantom warmth of a smaller body pressed up against his. Other times, it's as if he never left the Joker's lair. Instead of his family, he feels the gurgle die in his throat as the Joker tightens his hands around his neck, and the chilling metal of Harley's shackles biting bruises into his wrist because _its noon and the that's the time we play 'House with Mummy and Daddy.'_

Even though he knows he's not there, that he's safe in the cave, those flashes are as real to him as the crisp sheets pulled across his midsection. More than once, it gets so bad that he begs them to just kill him and get it over with. More than once, he tries ending it himself. He's certain he'll never be able to scrub the look on anguished look on Dick's face after one of these incidents out of his mind.

Mostly though, Tim remembers the deranged laughter building up in his throat. It always spills out in haggard little gasps, lapping up the silence until a needle comes along to pump cooling medicine into his veins.

The derangement lessens after the third week. He begins to get his awareness back, starts acting somewhat more like himself. Tim's still nowhere near alright, and yes, he's still cloudy from the endless sedatives spilling into his bloodstream, but some of the psyche that the Joker built up begins to fall away. All that's left is Bruce's training and the strikingly raw flashes of his alter ego. Despite everything -the mind games, the restraints, the _torture_ -, Red Robin still remains a vital part of of who he is, as much as Tim would like to rip the persona away if it would help end this misery faster. Whatever the personal cost, he is still a student of the dark knight. He is still the same nine year old kid who determined The Batman's identity from a flip his sidekick did when Tim was _four_.

Timothy Drake is still a genius, still a _detective_ , and as such, the drugs do little to cover up the obvious clues to just how much his disturbia has affected the family gathered around him.

Dick is perhaps the easiest to analyze due to the near constant proximity he has to Tim's sick bed. Something is different - _wrong_ \- with his older brother, and Tim knows he's to blame. Because what else would make Dick, ever cheerful, caring, above all else bubbly Dick, stop smiling. Oh the ever-present grin is still there, carefully held in place whenever Tim turns to look, but it's fraying at the edges and so _fake_ that it makes his own stomach flip every time he happens to see it.

 _Tim can't let his stomach flip. The feeling is the same as when The Joker hit him with that heinous pipe iron during his detainment to get him to comply, to get him to_ _ **laugh**_. _While Tim may not be his usual on-the-ball self right now, it is a certainty in his mind that if he were to laugh right now, Dick will cry and that is something Tim will not stand for. He will not make his older brother cry. Not again. Not after all he's put him through._

The other occupants of the house are not unscathed by Tim's insanity either. Bruce somehow manages to brood more than he already does, and even Alfred, who's always taken care of them no matter the cost, hasn't made his way over to Tim's sick bed other than to sedate him and bring him meals. Somehow he even manages to affect those far out of his own reach. It doesn't escape Tim's notice that Jason, who he now actually gets along with, shirks the cave like it's his own grave. There's been recurring incidents of him even going as far as to call Dick's personal cell on patrol if it will keep him away from the cave for an extra day or two. Dick, eternally the big brother, always finds some excuse for Jason's absence, something and anything to explain the constant emptiness by Tim's side, despite the fact that Jason promised to read him The Tale of Two Cities the next time he was free.

The effort means nothing. Despite the drugs, Tim's mind isn't scrambled enough not to see the obvious clues left out for him. He knows it's not the manor Jason's going so far to avoid. He knows it's not Dick who's laughing like a madman at every slightest detail, or Damian who can't get his head on straight, and for once it's not even Bruce -who Jason is finally on speaking terms with- that his brother is sidestepping. It's him; it's always been him. He's the one who is tearing his oldest brother to pieces; who is turning Bruce's one-nighters into week long events; who is _ruining_ the last chance of reconciling that Jason has. He was right in calling him The Replacement. There's nothing he's started that any of his brothers couldn't have already challenged, tousled with, vanquished by now. Hell, Jason's already died once, and Tim's complaining about a little torture?

He's pathetic and they all know it.

Even the demon brat seems to be changed by Tim's sudden return, eyeing him at odd moments as if studying the madness will make it go away. They don't argue anymore, or speak really. It's as if Damian is afraid of _hurting him_.

Somehow that's almost worse than what he's doing to Jason.

There's no way Tim can possibly begin to make this situation better, but at the very least, he can stop it from becoming worse. So he shuts up. On days when he can, he cuts back on the laughing, bites his lips until they bleed if he feels even the slightest inkling to giggle. He draws away from Dick, despite the other's insistence that he is fine with the late night watches and missing patrol. He hides the flashbacks with something akin to ease, smiles at Steph and Cass and Kon the best he can when they come and visit, though by their faces he knows it's nothing more than a thinly stretched grimace. He even tries to fight with Damian, despite the fact that his brother freezes the second Tim flinches from the slightest raise of his voice.

The facade isn't perfect, but for the most part, it's gotten his family to ease up, if only a little. The only thing he's powerless to stop are the nightmares. He can't protect himself constantly, not when he's unconscious, and the worst of the terrors come then. Sometimes they start with Harley, other times it cuts straight to the good part, and the Joker barrels in, a mask of impotent glee as he rushes to bash Tim's brains in.

He screams his way through those ones, and often the others as well. Alfred has to increase the sedatives when the night terrors are particularly bad, and even then Tim will wake to the image of a baggy-eyed Dick leaning over him, muttering reassurances under his breath as he soothes Tim back to sleep. The teen wonders if there's any use to that; they all know sleep will only bring another nightmare to wake him tomorrow.

Tonight is no different. Dick and Bruce are out on patrol, Dick's first in weeks, but Tim knows they're prepared to be back at the manor at the slightest disturbance from him. Maybe even if he does scream, they'll pretend the radio they've placed on his nightstand didn't pick up on it. They've dealt with enough of him over the past month. He'll only be dragging them down anyway. Worry makes them sloppy, and Tim will not be the cause of anymore of his family's pain. With shaking hands, he turns his feed down until it's nearly silent, until he's certain the duo will hear nothing from his end of the line, and then revels in the emptiness of the room.

Somehow he finds it in himself to go to sleep. Unsurprisingly, the nightmares meet him there. It's a reoccurring one, as most of them are, and his brain recalling the memories that haunted him all those nights he was captive.

 _He's strapped to a chair back in the Joker's lair, the lawn one that he should be able to move but can't. He's too drugged to even raise his eyes up to meet Harley's as she leans towards him._

" _Look at what we have here, Puddin' Pops." She coos, and reaches a hand up to tap the side of his face. "Our baby boy's here and all ready to play. But the sad thing is darlin," -And suddenly, Joker is there, filling in right beside Harley- "He's much too pale. We need to get some color back in the poor thing."_

 _She smiles this pitying sort of smile and the Joker copies her, and Tim can't make heads or tails of anything with his mind clouded like it is. At least, he can't until Harley reaches in her belt for the hammer, and Tim feels his heart stop._

" _N-no._ _ **Please**_ _."_

 _It doesn't faze her in the least, and pain spikes hot and fast against his side as she brings the hammer down in a sudden arch. He sputters, and it comes down again._ For talking back _, his mind supplies, though Tim knows he did no such thing. It's one of the first rules the pair instilled in him when he arrived. Any sound he made during their sessions was teenage rebellion; the baby bird was talking back, and we can't have our boy be mannerless, can we darlin'?_

 _Harley's laughing now, and the sound is an awful thing, cackling that grates his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Tim's insides turn to ice at the noise, because he knows if she's laughing then she's done, and if she's done…_

 _The Joker's face fills his vision, wide-eyed and grinning. In his hands is nothing more than a dented tire iron. Tim blanches, sputtering out promises that he'll be good, that he'll never go back to Bruce, that he'll be their's forever if he just doesn't use that on him,_ _ **please don't use that on me**_ _-_

" _Oh come on, Robbie, are you afraid of the itty-bitty tire iwon? There's no use for that little birdy," The Joker taunts as he eyes Tim's shaking shoulders. "After all, it's only ever killed one Robin. There's no such saying as killing two birds with one stone."_

 _The grin is wolfish._ " _Oh wait, there is."_

 _And the tire iron is raised high above his head, ready to strike down and take him away from his family, and the last thing Tim is going to see is the Joker's face grinning down on him, and oh god_ , _he's going to die; he's going to die; **he's going to** -_

 _"Drake!"_

And suddenly, the face looming down on his is no longer the Joker's but his younger brother's, hair mussed and eyes wide, as he drinks in the stature of his now awake brother. They are both breathing heavily, and with every labored exhale, Damian digs his fingers, currently gripping his older brother's shoulders, tighter into Tim's plaid nightshirt. Somewhere, remotely, Tim hears a constant, pulsing noise, buzzing at the edges of his consciousness.

" _DRAKE!"_ Damian yells again, and the teen finds himself being shaken. "Stop your mindless screaming!"

Tim hadn't even been aware he was screaming, though now he suspects that's what the noise was. As it is, he didn't think he could stop it if he tried. The action is as involuntary as he finds it necessary, and Damian, being his the only flesh-and-blood son of The Batman, seems to knows this before his brother can even find it in himself to try and voice it. The boy shakes him once more before deciding the action is entirely worthless and rears back. Tim barely has enough time to take notice of the change before Damian brings his open palm down on the side of his face with an audible smack.

The noise stops as Tim's jaw smacks shut automatically. He's numb, been numb ever since this entire shit-show started, but distantly, he feels himself touch trembling fingers to his now-stinging cheek. The skin feels inflamed and swollen, despite the short time-frame between Damian's slap and Tim's investigation. In short, it _hurts_ in a way a lot of things haven't recently. It's about as much of a shock to his system as anything could be at the moment, and suddenly Tim finds he's angry, or well, as angry as this new version of himself can be.

'How dare Damian smack him like that, _how dare he_ ,' some muffled part of his mind rages, but it's insignificant to the sudden scrape of his brother's fingers under his chin, grasping and digging until once again Tim is nose-to-nose with the angry assassin.

"Are you listening now, Drake?" Damian growls, and Tim inclines his head in a nod, despite the anger brewing in his gut. The older boy may not like the treatment, but he does understand it. He's terrorised this family enough over the past month. The least he can do is listen to his sleep-deprived little brother lecture him on how _real_ Waynes do not scream in their sleep.

That doesn't stop Tim from flinching when Damian pulls him up to a sitting position, never relenting his grip even when the two are settled, pressed forehead to forehead in the king sized bed. It's awkward as, though Damian is tall for his age, he's still smaller than his brother by a good three inches and Tim finds himself having to slump over to keep the position. The only good part of the situation is that the kid is at least warm, something Tim hasn't been since his enslavement. It's strangely _nice?,_ and all the confusion from that first month is back, filtering in through the slight breath his brother takes to get his thoughts together.

"You are safe here." Damian whispers on the exhale, and for a second, Tim doesn't think he hears him right. This is after all Damian raised-to-kill-from-birth Wayne. His little brother doesn't do comfort or kindness or anything that doesn't involve a batarang and the possibility of bodily harm. Anything fluffy or warm has always been more of Dick's area of expertise. This version of his brother is new and slightly terrifying and Tim has no time to really comprehend this momentous turn of events before Damian starts back up again.

"I do not care who is plaguing your insolent mind, Drake." _-now that sounds more like the demon brat-_ "It doesn't not concern me whether it is the clown, or that Quinn woman, or any of the numerous villains that Father has incarcerated. They will not touch you. _I will not allow them to._ The only person who is allowed to kill you is _me_ , and I have determined it inconvenient to follow through on this act at this moment in time. Therefore, if it will ensure your sleep and my own sanity, I will proceed to stand guard tonight" -wait _what?_ \- "and prevent them from harming your delicate form."

And just like that, all the air that Tim thought he was finally able to breathe caught up in his lungs and clung there. His little brother, the demon brat, the boy who tried to kill him the very first time they met, is offering -in albeit a creepy and slightly homicidal way- to protect him. He's offering a sleepless night of staring down blank walls, because he's Damian and would refuse sleep on the principle that he had given an oath, to ensure that his brother would feel safe enough to enjoy a relatively quiet night of rest.

It shouldn't have meant as much as it did. It shouldn't have meant anything really, because he and Damian fought tooth and nail over every and any subject of their choosing, because Dick still chose Damian over Tim time and time again, because of Bruce and the Ra's and a whole slew of other things. It shouldn't have meant anything because Damian was twelve and Tim was nearly a legal adult and could _-should-_ handle himself.

It shouldn't have meant anything but somehow, _it did_ , more than Tim would ever be able to vocalize. He ducks his head at the intensity of the fondness that fills his chest, feels Damian lessen his grip to allow the action. All at once there's this feeling of intense pride that quells up inside of him, and it saddens him to know that the first olive branch Damian's ever sent his way will be one he'll have to refuse.

"I don't want you to stay." Tim whispers. It's a lie.

"Tt- It is for my own sanity. I certainly don't want to stay." Damain says, and as far as Tim can tell, that's a lie too.

The conversation pitters to a standstill. This should be the part where Tim tells Damian to leave because Bruce and Jackson both raised him to be a prideful bastard, but the words refuse to escape his throat. The only sound Tim finds himself emitting is a pitiful squeak, before Damian -the domineering brat- takes over again.

The grip on Tim's face hardens to get his attention, then slowly releases when Tim's eyes focus in on his brother's. Tim finds himself on the receiving end of an accepting nod, of what he isn't quite sure.

Damian's quiet voice breaks the silence. "As soon as you fall asleep and I ensure you will not wake me again with your childish screaming, I will leave."

The affection in the tone is like a jab to the gut, and Tim gazes down at the boy through a curtain of dark lashes, feeling all the more pathetic for not demanding he go immediately. The feeling intensifies when, despite their agreement, Damian curls a hand around his wrist after Tim settles back into bed, and Tim, for his own part, doesn't break from the hold.

When he wakes up the next morning after a night of near perfect sleep, Damian is still there, curled into Tim's side and dozing fitfully. For the first time in a long time, there's a glimmer of hope. Somehow, they might beat this. Somehow, everything is going to be alright. Tim feels his mouth tug into a smile, and then promptly slips his eyes shut once more.

His pride can suck it. He'll just get Oracle to erase the pictures from Dick's phone later.

* * *

Thanks to Rye Scop and AutumnHobbit for leaving my first two comments on this collection, and to anyone who followed or favorited. It's good to hear from you all!

Again, if you have any sugguestions, don't hesitate to PM me. As always, thanks for reading and have a nice day!

-D. SAM


End file.
